


Nobody Here but Me

by equalopportunityobsessor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, PWP, Rough Oral Sex, Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Vaginal Sex, mild breathplay, roughish sex, the only thing harder than writing porn is tagging porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-06
Updated: 2015-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-29 06:13:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3885418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equalopportunityobsessor/pseuds/equalopportunityobsessor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Fem!John have sticky, sweaty sex during a heat wave in London.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Sherlock sits back, staring at Joanna with wide eyes as he licks a drop of her blood from his lip. She stays in place, panting and draped against the couch. </em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>"Is there anything you wouldn't let me do to you?" he whispers, awed. </em></p><p> </p><p>  <em>She blinks up at him, before looking away. "Does it matter?" she snaps, which is the same thing as saying 'No'. </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody Here but Me

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this several months ago in the middle of the four-day long blizzard which terrorized my northern-Canadian town. Because clearly the best way to deal with 6 feet of snow and grossness is to write about Sherlock and John banging like rabbits. 
> 
> This is self-edited and not Brit-picked, so if it's awful... Well, really, you were warned.
> 
> Also. I use the word 'cunt' in this fic, If that word squicks you out, this fic will definitely make you uncomfortable.
> 
> If anyone is interested, [this](http://8tracks.com/nirvanastephen/star-crossed-lovers-not) is the _highly_ NSFW playlist I listened to while hammering this out, for your listening pleasure.

London had been trapped in a heat wave for the past fortnight - moist air moved in off the ocean and mixed with the oppressive hot system trapped above the city, drenching everything in stringing, muggy, cloying heat. Even London's most stalwart citizens had cracked beneath the swollen humidity days ago - they could soldier their way through months of ceaseless rain with nothing but the occasional rueful head shake, but the thickness of the atmosphere had proved too much for them. The very air practically oozed water droplets, which, combined with the heat, meant the only time anyone was dry was when they stepped out of the shower and toweled off. When it finally rained, the precipitation brought no relief. The rain was warm like bathwater and barely cut through the thickness of the air.

Sherlock watches the rain fall, watches the drops seep-stutter across the window sill, gathering around the slight lip at the edge - Joanna had thrown the windows open days ago, muttering that if it was going to be just as impossible to breathe in the flat as outside it, she was at least going to enjoy the placebo effect of open windows.

Sherlock's breaths feel heavy, as if the sticky air clung to his alveoli, unwilling to be released. He can picture the humidity in each inhale mixing with the surfactant in his lungs, filling the spongy tissue until the organs were drenched and refused to function any more - he can imagine that it would make for an interesting crime scene, his dry drowning.

His mind creaks a bit at the thought, interest rumbling at the possibility, but settles quickly into festering stagnation again. Accidental drownings were _boring_ , even if he _is_ practically desperate enough to start investigating accidents. It would appear the criminal classes were no more willing to misbehave in this weather than any other Londoner. The city rouses itself once in the morning, and then again in the early evening - there were still businesses to run, after all - but other than that, nothing moves.

Sherlock sighs, and distantly notes the panicked spike in his heart rate when the ensuing inhale does not come as easily as it is meant to. It adds merely another layer to the burning sensation beneath his skin, as though colonies of fire ants are crawling through his muscle fibers, masked by his motionless epidermis.

He feels, simultaneously, as though his tissues are edemic, swollen with boiling fluids, and that his skin is several sizes too small, stretched and stapled to his dry and cracking skeleton.

Moving is a monumental undertaking to be avoided, but Sherlock pushes himself through the syrupy air of the sitting room to the window, pulling his violin along with him.

He advances until he's within the line of fire of the broiling thunderheads. The rain presses its tiny hands against his bare skin - he's wearing nothing but a pair of loose, raw cotton pyjama pants and a linen shirt, unbuttoned. He'd be wearing less, but Joanna was enforcing her 'minimum standards of acceptable dress' rules with unusual ferocity, and it's not worth deducing the cause of her latest insecurity.

It doesn't take long for drops to begin to squirm their way down the planes of his chest, and burrow into his curls. He can feel the tiny licks of moisture when they meet his scalp - if they meet his scalp. The humidity has done unkind things to his hair.

The usually satiny wood of his beloved violin feels almost unbearably tacky against his clavicle, and Sherlock tosses his head a few times, trying to alleviate the sensation. Raindrops worm their way between the wood and his skin, easing the friction.

Sherlock pulls the bow across all the strings, echoing the arch of the bridge with his arm, from wrist to elbow. Even his violin has begun to wilt in the heat, twisting beneath the pressure. Each note is wrung from the instrument like a pant, instead of the usual joyous siren call.

He dithers, playing the beginning chords of several concertos, oozing from Mozart to Vivaldi to Bach before giving up, simply letting the notes come as they wanted, prying them from the strings, defiant of the binding, restricting air of the flat. He feels as though he is melting into the floor, his legs and hips being lashed together by clinging, grasping ropes of sticky air until he is motionless, until only his shoulders and transverse abdominals sway with the pulsing of his violin - but eventually, slowly, his awareness of all this fades.

The violin fights him for every note - or maybe Sherlock merely fights himself. The Stradivarius is so often the vehicle of his thoughts and conflicts and _sentiment_ that Sherlock anthropomorphizes it without realizing.

He hates the effort and revels in the struggle and flinches from the sweat prickling across the nape of his neck…

He craves the escape, but wants the tempest to let him go, but the fire isn't just in his body anymore it's in his brain and it won't let him stop…

His fingers slip on the strings, the bow screeches its protest and… finally, finally Sherlock can breathe.

He opens his eyes, only just aware that he's closed them. An indeterminate amount of time has passed, but it hasn't been a _short_ amount of time - his wrist tingles in that not-quite-yet-painful way that tells him he's aggravated the tendons and they'll likely be swollen. The rain has stopped but he's still damp. His shirt clings to his biceps and his pants droop against his pelvis-

And he isn't alone.

The awareness of his own body, of himself occupying an area in tangible space, flashes through him all at once, and Sherlock catalogues heat and pressure along his right leg, an area just below the hollow of hipbone that is hotter than the rest and haloed by a slightly sticky coolness-

Sherlock looks down, and there is Joanna, sitting at his feet, leaning against his leg. She sits with her knees pointing outwards, soles of her feet pressed together. Her hands curl loosely around her ankles and her head rests against Sherlock's thigh. She doesn't move now that he's stopped playing, merely leaning a little more solidly against him to acknowledge his return to awareness, and allows him to observe her.

She seems to have forgotten her own rules about the minimum amount of clothing to be worn at all times - she is dressed only in one of her sport-bras, and a pair of spandex running shorts. She too is damp from the rain, and tendrils of her thick blonde hair stick to her throat and chest.

Sherlock allows the violin to droop in his hands, spying a towel laid out on the desk, out of the way of the rain, waiting for the instrument. He puts it down gently, resolving to care for it properly at the earliest opportunity, but the fire in his bones is only growing more insistent and he can't quite take his eyes off Joanna.

His hand lands on her hair, feeling the familiar heat of her particular presence radiating from her skull; she sighs when he makes contact, almost a groan of relief, and tilts her head a little more securely against his thigh, the ghost of a nuzzle.

Sherlock begins to think he _does_ have a name for the inferno in his veins.

He pushes his fingers into her hair, feeling the thick strands tangle around his invasion. He pets at the cowlicks at her hairline and crown, sticking up more persistently at the hands of the abominable humidity. She's never permitted him to touch her this way, not that he had previously ever thought to enjoy such an activity, but he delights in the power and possibility of their positions - Sherlock has never thought to deduce anything from the texture of Joanna's hair, but he finds himself meticulously archiving the data regardless.

A sense memory flashes through his mind, unbidden: Joanna's hair tumbling against his collarbone, spilling over her shoulder when she bends down to crush her lips against his-

 _She'd been gone for a_ week _, some ridiculous conference that Stamford invited her to, for 'professional development', she'd said - idiotic notion, Joanna was already vastly over-qualified for any civilian work. It was a strange liberty (and, perhaps, not an entirely welcome one) that Sherlock found himself experiencing - with no one to nag him into sleeping and eating and drinking, he found it painfully tedious to make_ himself _do these things. So he put it off, taking sips from the cups of tea Mrs. Hudson must have been leaving for him when he remembered - there was just so much more_ time _for everything now, and surely he'd gone longer without in the past…_

_He was in the morgue when his transport finally rebelled. He was examining the callus patterns on a woman's foot - a dancer and a figure skater, though she'd recently taken up running as a past-time - when the world was suddenly excessively bright and zooming away from him - one second he was looking at the body, ignoring Molly, and the next, he was on the ground, Molly crouched over him, face white and blurry and -_

_He'd awoken to Molly at his bedside in one of the rooms at Barts, hooked up to a seemingly impossible number of IV bags, feeling unpleasantly sloshy. She explained, nervously, how he'd passed out, and hit his head, and she'd called some paramedic friend of hers (a 'crush', of sorts, he'd asked her out for coffee and she'd said yes and worked herself into such a fret before the date that she'd had to cancel) and they'd brought him upstairs, he'd been asleep for four hours and, oh yes, she'd called Joanna…_

_Who burst into the room, frantic and disheveled and Sherlock was_ relieved _to see her (ridiculous, she'd barely been gone long enough to notice) and she stalked right up to his bed, seized his face and kissed him. He froze and his mind stuttered and he almost didn't get it back online fast enough to record every detail of the experience (because this was unprecedented, unexpected,_ fascinating _) before she pulled away._

 _"Sorry!" she blurted, face flaming, "Sorry! I didn't mean to! I just - Molly told me you'd collapsed you_ idiot _, you colossal wanker, you are a moron, you know that? I was so worried about you…"_

_Sherlock's eyes flick to Molly, who looks very pale and very drawn and her mouth is so tight it's almost disappeared, and she stutters some excuses and leaves the room._

_Joanna bites her lip. "Oh, no. That was probably a bit not good, wasn't it?" Sherlock hasn't the faintest idea what she's talking about, really, and lets Joanna fuss over him for entirely longer than is necessary -_

He strokes his hand over her head firmly, mapping the planes and divots of her skull, and finds himself wishing that there was more substance to phrenology, because _oh_ , the things he could know about the extraordinary brain of Joanna Watson. Though she makes not a sound, Sherlock can feel the faintest of vibrations against his fingertips, traveling from her ribcage up through her spine and against his fingers through her skull; she appears to be _humming(purring)_.

Sherlock eventually grows frustrated with the lack of new territory to explore - his arms can only stretch so far, and Joanna is very short. He fists his hand into the hair at the nape of her neck, and tugs, pulling her up until she is kneeling, sitting back on her heels, no longer leaning against his leg. She doesn't protest, not with words nor with non-verbal cues - Sherlock leads, and she follows.

(Sherlock knows that this is not quite the order of things - Joanna follows him, yes, and does what he tells her, sometimes, but not because she is mindlessly obedient. Joanna acts in his best interests, always - occasionally this means doing what he asks, but sometimes it means doing the opposite, and she'll go right ahead and do that thing despite his wishes.)

He strokes his thumbs over her cheekbones, pressing firmly to feel the push-back of her zygomatic arches. He traces the fine lines around her eyes, nose, and mouth with the sensitive pads of his right hand, dragging the string-calluses on his left down the vulnerable curve of her throat. He touches every inch of her face and neck, and she just stares up at him. Her expression is placid, even, better than any poker face he's ever seen her wear, though the tension that he's felt in her facial muscles carves the foundation of her familiar affectionate smile beneath her skin.

Joanna's eyes are dark and wide in the ruddy light from the street lamps outside. She keeps her gaze unwaveringly on his face, though she never loses focus or appears to stare past him. Joanna has been uncharacteristically restless and unsettled and unsure under the pressure of the heat wave. She has been, by turns, overly sensitive and snappish, and then overly deferential and accommodating. She will spend hours hovering around him, attending to even his most outlandish (and fabricated) demands, and then in the next be unable to even stand the annoyance of his audible _breathing_. Sherlock has enjoyed the presence of this moody and manic Joanna as much as he enjoys the presence of her in every mood - sometimes actively, sometimes distantly, but _constantly_ \- but _this_ , right now, her silent and submissive and _at his feet_ , he doesn't know what it is he wants to do first…

So he will do what he _always_ does when he is unsure - he _pushes_.

Sherlock curls his large hand under her jaw, palm cradling the sharp edge of her mandible on one side, fingertips curling up towards her cheek on the other. Her skin is overheated, radiating the excess heat her body is frantically trying to shed, but a flush rises on her cheeks and her eyes darken further when his other hand pushes his pyjama bottoms down, pulling the waistband out and under his rapidly firming penis - the elastic settles snugly under his balls, lifting them up against the blood-hot skin of his cock. Joanna's eyes fly down to eye him critically: her mouth opens and she licks her lips, her scorching breath scrapes against all the sensitive nerves of his inguinal region, her throat bobs against his hand.

More blood gushes into his erectile tissue, and the heat gathering in his engorged prick feels like it must be enough to brand Joanna's delicate skin.

He waits until her eyes meet his before testing his theory; eyes locked, he wraps his free hand tightly around the base of his cock, guiding them together until the plump and spongy glans rub against her lips. He paints her mouth with his pre-ejaculate, moving back and forth with tiny twists of his hips, simply using his grip on himself to keep his prick steady.

Sherlock loses himself in the sensation, the sultry buzz in his skin simultaneously yearning for more sensation and reveling in hedonistic appreciation of the craving crackling in his bones and her eyes. He twists his hips a little farther, dragging the glans over her cheek, smearing her with his pre-seminal fluid, and then merely resting, pressing his throbbing shaft against her heated, petal soft skin. Joanna's pretty little tongue appears, as Sherlock expects, dragging across her upper lip; she leaves the bottom alone, and his secretions glisten against her reddened skin. Sherlock drags his thumb across her lip, gathering the fluid on his own skin, and then pushes the digit into her mouth. She suckles him softly, searingly hot oral tissues delicate and fluttering. Her teeth drag against the pad of his thumb as he slides it out of her mouth.

He draws back a few inches, repositioning the two of them and dropping his cock, allowing the tip to brush tantalizingly over her lips as he moves. He maintains his hold on her jaw as his free hand brushes her hair off her brow and pulls the damp strands away from her neck and chest to cascade over her shoulder blades.

Sherlock isn't watching her mouth as carefully as he should be (a serious misjudgement on his part, obviously, he _knows_ Joanna) and so jerks in surprise at the blistering butterfly-kiss brushed across the glans. His eyes fly to hers, then over her face. Joanna doesn't appear to have moved, but her mouth is just barely parted, tongue gripped between her teeth. He returns to his former position, refusing to so much as blink; her tongue laps against his slit, tiny little touches with the very tip. She parts her lips a little farther, letting her tongue drag a little more wetly over the head of his prick, wriggling underneath his foreskin to press against the fraenulum.

Abruptly, all of Sherlock's intentions to draw this out, to torment them both are forgotten; he fists the base of his cock, and tightens his grip on Joanna's jaw. He feeds it to her slowly - inexorable, but not precisely gentle. Her lips remain clamped tight around him, and her tongue presses up against the ventral surface of his prick as the head bumps across her hard palate, then her soft palate. Sherlock lets himself go so his fist isn't in the way as he strokes further into her mouth, until he nudges up against the top of her throat. He pulses back and forth gently, feeling the slick and rhythmically tightening surface fluttering against the glans. Joanna's gaze remains fixed on his, and she makes no move to stop him, to slow him down… So he doesn't.

Sherlock releases his grip on her jaw, holding her instead with both hands fisted in her hair. He draws her forwards, pushing her farther onto his cock until her nose is pushing against his pelvis and he must be blocking off her air.

Joanna twitches a few times, cheeks hollowing around his cock and back arching as she futilely tries to find air, weakly struggling to adjust. Her eyes are wide and liquid, and a hectic flush crawls from her chest, up her throat to her cheeks, but she never looks away from Sherlock, tilting her chin awkwardly to keep her eyes on his.

Just as her expression begins to show a little desperation, Sherlock pulls back. He keeps just the tip of his cock in the humid confines of her mouth as she gulps down air - she hasn't quite got all her breath back by the time he pulls her back down his prick. She inhales frantically, but accepts him readily enough.

Sherlock forces her head to tilt a little farther, her back to arch a little steeper, just so he can nudge another millimeter or two deeper into her throat. He makes her hold him for longer. Joanna is deliciously flushed, the hectic colour in her cheeks rising higher and higher as he stuffs her full of his cock, over and over, just as desperate to finish as he is to see if she can _take it_.

Sweat rolls off Joanna's temples down her cheeks, splattering against the thin skin on the insides of Sherlock's wrists like drops of molten lead - the heat is _insufferable_ , but neither of them are thinking about it anymore.

The head of his cock catches minutely against her teeth on his next withdrawal. Sherlock inhales sharply when fire flashes through him, burning through his thighs and making them shake. They both freeze, staring at each other. They are still and wary for a moment, and then Joanna grins mischievously.

She sucks his cock back down, tipping her head to get him back at the right angle, but this time she lets her teeth drag, very carefully, down his length. The sharp, unyielding scrape is in no way comfortable, but never crosses the line into painful; Joanna is very, very precise. Sherlock trembles with the effort it takes not to jerk, not to thrust uncontrollably into her mouth, not to batter his way down her throat. He lets her control her own pace up and down his prick, merely watching her impale herself on his cock again and again.

Sherlock suddenly slides out of her mouth with a slick pop, and he can't help tightening his hands around her hair in agitation. Joanna's eyelids flicker, and her lips curl upwards, just a bit. Sherlock tugs again, and again, pulling harder and harder until her smile has disappeared, but her breathing is harsh and her eyes are practically black. Joanna nudges against his cock, pressing her cheekbone, jaw, neck, to his throbbing flesh, panting heavily against him. She stretches up to feather feverish kisses over his abdomen and belly; it is the first contact they have that is not Sherlock's hands and cock to Joanna's head and neck.

Joanna dips her head to inhale deeply against the base of his erection, pressing little kisses and licks to the skin around it as she ducks under to mouth at his balls. Joanna curls her tongue around one, pulling it into her blazing mouth and sucking softly. She rolls it over her tongue, slowly and thoroughly, feeling the weight of his testes inside the loose skin. Joanna releases him, and her eyes glint wickedly as she flicks a glance up at him; she blows gently on the damp skin. Sherlock doesn't shiver so much as he jerks uncontrollably, and it is only by locking his knees that he remains upright. Joanna mouths at the other testicle as he recovers. She tugs at the thin skin of his sack with her lips, sparking maddeningly tiny flashes of sensation through his nervous system.

Finally, after the majority of Sherlock's brain has liquefied in his skull, she licks her way back up to the tip of his cock. He presses between her lips, and she slides down him until he is once again nestled in the warm tunnel of her throat.

Sherlock can't stand it anymore, doesn't give her a chance to argue, though she certainly doesn't try. His hips stutter and grind and roll as he pushes into her mouth over and over, moving frantically, beyond all reason. Joanna makes tiny little mewling, choking gasps around his cock whenever she has the air to, which isn't often. Saliva coats her lips, then collects at the corners of her mouth, thickening until it can't cling anymore and begins to run over her chin until she is drooling helplessly around Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock's rhythm, such as it is, deteriorates rapidly and every muscle in his body locks up as his orgasm thunders through him, burning his brain down to useless ash. He doesn't think he's breathing, but _boring_ no longer describes the tedium of breathing, not when _this_ is an alternative.

It takes him a minute to return to alertness - his mind palace seems to have closed itself to all activity for the foreseeable future. Sherlock has managed to remain standing, but is slumped in place, curled over Joanna. His arms are limp and heavy across her shoulders, and his head practically rests against hers.

Joanna watches him carefully, both wary and concerned, but Sherlock doesn’t have the mental wherewithal to even _begin_ to deduce the source of her anxiety - not know that he's noticed the traces of his ejaculate clinging to her lips and chin.

His sense memory is limited, but the little he did manage to preserve flashes brightly through his slowly plodding brain. He'd pulled her against him as he came, not allowing her the chance to finish him with her hand or avoid swallowing his cum - she'd done her best to swallow, but she'd been too short on air, and some of it had leaked out of her mouth, down her jaw and neck.

It was the most devastating thing Sherlock had ever seen.

Sherlock gives into the hollow feeling in his knees and collapses so that he is level with Joanna, pulling her into a ferocious kiss. She tastes like him, is undeniably _marked_ as his. Nothing has ever been as wonderful as his cum and his tongue inside Joanna's perfect mouth - at least, until she curls one of her hands around the open panel of his shirt, and the other into his curls, and tugs them sharply together.

They are both sticky with sweat and the heat between them is blistering, and Sherlock hasn't softened _at all_ , he is ravenous for this, for her, for _more._

He pushes Joanna back and she falls against the front of the couch, feet still caught underneath her. She groans and lets her head fall back on the seat when Sherlock pounces on her, licking the slick sweat from her collarbones. The ridge of her sternocleidomastoid is _enchanting_ , so Sherlock sinks his teeth into it, sharply, testing the give and the flex of her muscle and skin almost clinically. Joanna arches beneath him with a broken sound, pressing her neck firmly enough into his teeth that the skin breaks.

Sherlock sits back, staring at Joanna with wide eyes as he licks a drop of her blood from his lip. She stays in place, panting and draped against the couch.

"Is there anything you wouldn't let me do to you?" he whispers, awed.

She blinks up at him, before looking away. "Does it matter?" she snaps, which is the same thing as saying _'No'_.

Sherlock _growls_ , and presses himself against her again, rocking his sticky and sensitive cock against the slippery fabric covering her crotch. He bites her again, this time on the jaw while his fingers tug desperately at the clasp of her bra. It comes off after far too much effort, and his mouth reattaches to the sensitive tip of her left breast.

Joanna moans and struggles, trying to move, closer or farther Sherlock can't tell and doesn't care, because she _can't_ move, and he'd never considered before how it would feel to tie Joanna down, to pin her and mark her and fuck her and peel her open until he could sink his fingers into the slim gaps between her ribs and into her brain and into her _heart…_

He digs his fingers into the heavy muscle and spidery skin of her bad shoulder instead, and the shivery cry Joanna gives him in response makes him hot enough for his _bones_ to start melting. He catches her nipple between his teeth, drawing his head back to stretch out the soft skin until the tension becomes too much, and the flesh scraps out of his mouth. Joanna groans heavily, arching her back to push her breasts closer to him.

Sherlock licks and bites his way across her chest, one hand lifting to cradle Joanna's untouched breast in his palm. He curls his fingers around her, digging deeper and deeper into the flesh until his grip is crushingly strong and Joanna's hips are rocking desperately against his. He sucks gently, almost teasingly, at the skin swelling up between his fingers, eyes locked on her face.

Joanna's eyes are closed though her eyelashes flutter frantically against her cheeks. Her lips are parted to accommodate the air sawing in and out of her chest. Her skin is splotched with red from cheeks to collarbones, and is shiny with sweat.

"Sherlock," she moans, twisting desperately against his body. Her hands slide over his shoulders to his arms, fingernails digging sharply into his triceps through his thin shirt.

He takes his mouth away from her breast to capture her lips instead, plunging his tongue deeply into her mouth, stroking her tongue with his, drawing it into his mouth to suck wetly at the muscle. She gasps wildly, sinking her teeth into the swell of his lower lip as soon as he releases her.

They kiss messily, desperately, too short on air but neither of them care enough to stop, not until spots are dancing behind Sherlock's eyelids and his body forces him away against the wishes of his brain. His eyes fly open to find Joanna staring back at him.

There is something so familiar about the way that she looks at him now, eyes bluer than blue, crinkled at the corners with a smile that never fails to make his heart thud dangerously, eyebrows and mouth tilted upwards challengingly, her whole expression daring him to impress her.

"Joanna," he snarls as he curls his hands around her waist.

"Joanna," he pants as he buries his face in her neck.

"Joanna, Joanna, Joannajoannajoanna," he mutters as he shoves her upwards, before his chanting of her name is cut off by him fastening his lips around a section of skin and beginning to suck a mark into her throat. He pushes her upwards, covering her body with his own until she is bent backwards over the couch cushions, their hips pressed together at the very edge. His fingers scrabble at her waist, trying to worm their way under the waistband of her shorts so he can peel the clinging fabric off of her.

The fabric is glued to her body with sweat, and Sherlock sinks his teeth into her neck in frustration. Joanna lets out a soft scream above him, and then her hands join his at her hips. She is, remarkably, more impatient than he is, and she just shoves her hands into her shorts, prying them away from her skin and pushing them down her legs.

Sherlock has to take his weight off of her so that Joanna can lift her legs up between them, sliding the fabric over her knees and kicking it free.

His hands are instantly on her hips, pulling her back down, tilting her pelvis so that his cock and her cunt are perfectly lined up; he doesn't check if she's ready, doesn't spare a thought to how long it may have been since she had sex, if she needs to be stretched -

His cock bumps into her, pressing against the slickness of her labia before the head slips down to catch against the furled skin of her entrance.

Suddenly, Joanna's hands are hard and sharp against his sternum, shoving at him until he is forced to lean away from her. She straightens her legs at the same time, pushing herself up onto the couch, so there is several feet of space in between them. This is intolerable, and Sherlock leans after her without thinking, hands already reaching for her when he is halted by her foot, planted solidly against his diaphragm.

They stare at each other for several long moments, chests heaving in concerted rhythm, logical thought beginning to cut through the fugue of heat and lust.

Joanna finally breaks the tension of the moment when she heaves out a well-worn, exasperated sigh.

"Condoms, Sherlock," she chides, almost laughing now, "You can't have deleted _condoms_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Tedious, and unnecessary. We're both clean, you're on the pi-"

He breaks off suddenly when Joanna shoves him with her foot, knocking him back on his arse.

Sherlock gapes at her, taken totally by surprise, but she just glares back.

"Condoms, Sherlock," she repeats shortly. "Non-negotiable. Christ, we _really_ should have been using them already."

Sherlock sniffs disdainfully. "You're far too fastidious to go without regular testing between partners, and too conscious a lover to have proceeded this far _without_ saying something had your last test come back less than pristine. I, on the other hand, have not engaged in sexual activity in quite some time, and was tested religiously upon ceasing other, far riskier activities… I assure you, Joanna, there's no need for such prophylactics."

Joanna _smiles_ at him, fond and adoring and exasperated, because _of course_ she does, Sherlock can never figure her out, how she will respond, what she thinks, what she sounds like when she comes, what she looks like when he comes inside of her, and he _needs to know_ , _now_ , all this talking is ridiculous -

"Oh, Sherlock," she sighs, reaching out with one hand to push his curls off his forehead, running her fingers over his scalp. He leans into the caress. He sucks in a sharp breath when she suddenly tugs at his hair, fisting the strands tightly.

"Condoms," she enunciates, jerking his head back to expose his neck, sucking a mark identical to the one he has given her into his skin.

Sherlock growls, but mutters, “In my bedside table.”

She leans away, muttering, "Bedroom, _now_ ," as she launches herself off the couch and darts down the hall to his room. Sherlock jerks to his feet, snarling as he has to fight his way free of his pyjamas, which are still twisted around his thighs. He sheds his shirt behind him when he finally manages to make it past the kitchen.

He pauses in the threshold of the bedroom, frozen by some subconscious demand that he memorize the tableau before him in exacting detail.

Joanna is waiting for him on the bed, on her knees with her arse in the air, shoulders and head resting on the mattress. Her face is blocked from view by one arm, which is folded beneath her face. The other arm is stretched down beneath her, following the line of her body so that her hand is buried between her legs. Sherlock can't see what her fingers are doing, but he can see the rolling of her shoulder and tensing of her arm which suggest movement of her wrist and fingers. Her knees are spread wide, and her hips jerk rhythmically against her own hand.

Sherlock pads silently around the bed to stand at the end, where he has the best view of Joanna's ass and cunt. She must know that he's there, because her pelvis tilts down and back to present more of her to his gaze.

The very tips of her two middle fingers are resting just at the slick and pulsing entrance to her body, the palm of her hand against her pubic bone. Every thrust of her hips rocks her fingers into her body, and her clit down against the heel of her hand. Little cries punch out of her with every pulse.

Sherlock steps closer, within reach, and lays one hand on her arse to feel the flex of muscle beneath the plush curve as she pleasures herself. Two fingers of his other hand slide into her body without ceremony, alongside her own.

Joanna makes a choked, desperate noise, and she loses her careful rhythm as she grinds uncontrollably onto his fingers. She is almost painfully tight, clearly has not been having regular penetrative sex, despite her seemingly never-ending stream of dates and dalliances.

Sherlock tightens his grip on her arse to stop the motion of her hips, holding her fast as he sets his own rhythm for rocking his fingers gently in and out of her. His prick is throbbing, demanding, but he tries to push the distraction away so he can focus on Joanna - he doesn’t want to hurt her, not like this anyway, not yet.

He slides his two fingers in and out of her in long, easy strokes, scissoring his fingers at the top of every insertion to stretch her gently before bringing his fingers back together and pulling out of her. He alternates this stretching with simply rubbing his fingertips firmly over the walls of her cunt, stimulating the myriad of nerves all up and down the slick tunnel, searching out that one spot inside her…

Joanna makes another choked, gasping sound when he brushes against it, his fingers not quite long enough to really stimulate her G-spot properly, just enough to tease at it, to taunt her with the possibility. Her whole body convulses with every thrust of his fingers, and she is groaning his name into the bed. His hand starts to slip against the skin of her arse, the sweat collecting on her skin making her too slick to hold.

Sherlock pulls his fingers all the way out of her, rubbing the fluid coating his digits against his thumb, thinking. He steps around the corner of the bed to reach the bedside table, retrieving a condom and tearing it open after far too much struggle. He rolls it on, giving himself a few tight, fast strokes as he did, unable to stop himself from stroking his swollen cock.

Joanna had turned her head to watch him out of the corner of her eye when he had withdrawn his fingers, and was now eyeing him warily, as though suspecting him of plotting against her. He smiles widely, but somehow, she doesn't look reassured.

Sherlock clambers up on the bed, kneeling up behind Joanna. He wraps one hand around her waist, nudging her until she unfolds and presses her back against his chest, his cock pushing against the curve of her ass. Her head tips back of its own accord to rest on his shoulder. Her hair dangles limply over the crest of his shoulder and down his back, clinging to the film of sweat coating him. Joanna's quick breaths puff hot and humid against his jaw.

He nudges her thighs apart, spreading her open, and places his knees on the outside of hers. Sherlock cups his hand over her pussy, the heel of his palm pressed to her outer labia and the pads of his fingers teasing at her entrance. Joanna’s hips jerk, grinding herself into his palm. Sherlock smiles triumphantly against her temple.

“Could you come, just like this, Joanna?”

“Are you gonna let me try?” Joanna growls, hips circling restlessly.

Sherlock smirks. “Maybe,” he murmurs, pushing his palm against her as she thrusts down, so her labia part and her clit is pushed harshly into his hand.

Joanna’s moan is beautiful, long and high and breathless. She stops rolling her pelvis in drawn-out circles in favour of quick jerks back and forth across the hard plane of his hand.

Sherlock dips two fingers into her body, and her cunt opens easily around the stretch, muscles spasming to try and pull his deeper, but he resists. Sherlock keeps his fingers right at her entrance, just where the stretch is sweetest and sharpest, and spreads his fingers apart.

Joanna makes a broken sort of keen, and one of her hands flies up to tangle in his hair. Her whole body quivers against him, the movement of her hips slowing into shivery little pulses. Sherlock curls his hand to pull the heel of his palm across her clit, and Joanna is lost.

She stiffens into a long arch, her pelvis tipping down to push her clit firmly against Sherlock’s hand, her mouth open and panting.

“Sherlock,” she hisses, voice oh so small, “Sherlock, _Sherlock_ , please, oh please, _God_ -“

He can feel the way her cunt is contracting, tightening around nothing but the emptiness created by the stretch of his fingers. When the spasms gentle to an easy, rolling sort of pull, Sherlock uses his free hand to guide just the head of his prick into her cunt, between his fingers.

Joanna gasps, choking on a cry.

Sherlock mouths slowly over her throat, from the hinge of her jaw to the crest of her shoulder, tasting the sweat coating her skin as he pushes his cock into her, his fingers keeping Joanna spread so wide open for him. Her cunt is positively _soaking_ , and the shuddery aftershocks of her orgasm feel sublime around his achingly hard prick.

It feels like it takes forever for him to be fully sheathed inside her, for his balls to bump gently against her thighs, and both Sherlock and Joanna are panting by the time he’s finished.

Joanna turns her head so her mouth is pressed to the sticky skin of his throat.

“God, I feel like I’m going to pass out,” she whispers, and Sherlock smirks.

He curls his hand once more, pushing against her clit and teasing the taut skin stretched around his cock with his fingers. Joanna shakes and cries out, teeth catching at his neck.

He starts rocking against her, barely withdrawing before stabbing back into her, but the movement is shatteringly intense regardless. He can feel his foreskin slipping around the head of his cock with every push of his hips.

Joanna is soft and pliant and slippery against him, the oppressive heat slicking the space between them until Sherlock almost feels as though they are melting into each other, the borders between SherlockandJoanna blurring away to nothing.

Sherlock pulls his hand, positively _dripping_ with her fluids, away from her pussy and pushes three fingers into her mouth. Joanna groans around his hand.

Her lips tighten around the invasion and her teeth catch on his fingers, holding him in place while she sucks and licks her juices from his skin. Sherlock nudges her forward, using his lips and chin to push her hair away from the nape of her neck so he can press kisses and bites to the tender skin.

Joanna sucks desperately at Sherlock’s fingers when he goes to pull them out of her mouth, but he ignores her, replacing his mouth with his hand so he is gripping her by the back of the neck.

Sherlock shoves her forward suddenly, one hand on her hip keeping their pelvises tight together as his other pushes her shoulders and head into the bed. He stays kneeling up behind her, only bending far enough to maintain his grip before he begins to slide out, slowly, savouring the way her cunt shudders around his cock as the stretch of him inside her is relieved.

He pauses with the head of his prick just pushing at the entrance to her body, both of them straining to have him inside her again.

Sherlock slams inside her, and the harsh smack of skin on skin is beautiful, perfect, _everything_.

He pulls back and pushes forward again, too fast too rough, maybe, but neither of them care and it’s _brilliant_.

Joanna is a _mess_ beneath him, writhing and twisting as though she’s trying to escape his hold one second but then arching into his body the next. She manages to grip the duvet tightly enough to gain some leverage, shoving herself back towards Sherlock, and the curve of her spine is _devastating_.

Sherlock helps her lift her hips and tilt her pelvis, the two of them stretching and pushing until finally, _finally_ , every forward jerk of Sherlock’s hips has his balls smacking into her clit. Joanna croons, rolling her spine to push herself into each of his thrusts.

The contact between his hipbones and her arse must be hard enough to bruise by now, but Sherlock can’t pull back, can’t slow down, losing control of his body entirely as his rhythm falls apart, his back curling so he is hunched over Joanna. His orgasm now feels slower than the last, oozing through his veins like honey as he spends himself into the condom, spurting cum over and over and _over_ as his climax drags him apart.

He collapses onto Joanna, their legs flying out from underneath them sending him crashing into her back.

They lay there as Sherlock tries to catch his breath, tries to remember how to think, tries to –

“Bastard, you’re not just going to leave me like this, are you?”

Joanna’s strident demand filters slowly through the haze in his mind, and he can barely understand what she’s after. But a slow push of his hips down into hers produces a long, rolling shudder and a hoarse cry.

Sherlock wedges his hand underneath her, wriggling it between her body and the duvet until her pussy is cupped in his hand once more. He curls his fingers up, sliding them as far as he can into her, alongside his softening and sensitive cock.

“There,” he murmurs, nuzzling at her neck, “I assume you can take care of it from here?”

Joanna is motionless beneath him for a long moment, and then her cunt clamps down on him abruptly. Sherlock moans, the sudden pressure just this side of painful, but his quivering body denies any attempts to withdraw from inside her.

“You,” she pants, rocking into his hand with a tired _unh_ , “Are _such_ ,” another tight thrust, “an _asshole_.”

Joanna grinds into his hand until the pressure against her clit and the stretch of her cunt are finally enough, and she tumbles once more into orgasm.

 

+++

 

Joanna doesn’t have to open her eyes when she wakes the next morning to know that she had spent the night in Sherlock’s bed, and that she is now alone in it. But her hand crawls out across the sheets anyway, feeling the cool, empty expanse.

She blinks her eyes open, taking in Sherlock’s smooth ceiling, taking stock of her body. Her pussy feels swollen and sensitive, and she’s not at all surprised to find that her bladder is ready to explode – she hadn’t had the energy to wriggle out from under Sherlock’s bony weight after her final, explosive orgasm, let alone actually _leave_ the bed and stumble to the toilet.

Joanna presses a hand to her throat and hums a bit, feeling the stinging burn in her abused throat. Rolling over stretches her muscles and sends twinges through her whole body. She’s getting to old to fuck the way she and Sherlock had last night.

Joanna pushes herself out of bed and into the hallway, but bypasses the bathroom absently, heading for the kitchen.

Sherlock is sitting at the table, fully dressed in one of his stupid, poncy suits. He must be sweltering, but he didn’t appear to notice. Just as he doesn’t appear to notice Joanna, leaning in the open doorway, completely naked. She waits, wondering if he’ll look up, acknowledge her, and what she’ll do when he does.

Except he doesn’t. He very deliberately does not look up.

 _All right then_ , Joanna thinks to herself, _that’s how it is_.

Joanna turns around, and goes to take a desperately needed shower.


End file.
